


Pine and Plum

by lostlenore



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Edo Period, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 22:59:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlenore/pseuds/lostlenore
Summary: The spring air is thick with rain not yet fallen when Iwaizumi steps out of the city and into the walled compound of Yoshiwara.





	Pine and Plum

**Author's Note:**

> It's been 84 years...

The spring air is thick with rain not yet fallen when Iwaizumi steps out of Edo and into the walled compound of Yoshiwara. Strings of red lanterns gleam bright against the water of the moat, swaying gently as Iwaizumis’s sandals strike the bridge with a hollow wooden sound.

The bridge is packed shoulder to shoulder with rich merchants, artisans, the type of men with too much money and too many empty hours to fill in the pursuit of pleasure. They jostle for position like so many tropical birds, chattering in a way that grates on Iwaizumi's nerves.

Still, among the peacocks in their fine silks and oiled hair, he catches glimpses of other men like him, wrens in their plain haori and hakama, their features obscured by their wide straw hats. Iwaizumi watches these men closely, the way their hands flutter to the hilts of their swords on nervous impulse. The thin veil of fog rising off the water is hardly enough to separate them from the code of the city: a samurai must never set foot in the Floating World. But there are no watchmen at the gate tonight, and as Iwaizumi watches, the men slip inside one by one, like candles snuffed out.

“No weapons allowed inside,” says the bored attendant at the gate when Iwaizumi makes it to the front of the line. He holds out his hand for the sword strapped to Iwaizumi’s waist. Iwaizumi entertains a brief fantasy of running him through with it. To be parted from it, even for a single night, feels like removing one of his arms.

There is only one thing more precious Iwaizumi than his sword, and it’s hidden inside the walls of the compound. Iwaizumi bites down his pride, and unfastens the sword, careful to keep his face shadowed. He cannot risk being noticed tonight, of all nights.

For all that they have not truly left the city, Yoshiwara always feels a world apart from Edo--brighter, headier, and more poisonous. The streets are lined with latticed tea shops, brothels pretending to be tea shops, and outright brothels. Little fingers of golden light beckon men towards the heavy wooden bars, through which the women are visible. Iwaizumi fights his way through a group of them crowded together on the walk outside, straining to catch a glimpse of a bare shoulder, the flutter of a fan, the delicate sound of a flute. The more straightforward brothels have women out in front of the houses, calling and cheering, weaving in and out of clouds of pipe smoke that shroud the night’s drunken revelers in a hazy glow.

Iwaizumi does his best to avoid Kabuki in the harsh light of day, but here, in the twilight of the Floating World, it’s near impossible. He moves up the street, passing a stall hawking guidebooks and woodblock prints and is immediately snagged by entire books filled with nothing but Oikawa’s face. The main spring run of _Youshitsune Senbon Zakura_ is in full swing, and Oikawa-as-Shizuka is in peak demand. The shop is plastered wall-to-wall with his fox-faced smile, and it would take a much stronger man than Iwaizumi to look away.

“The Grand Empress, you are a man of good taste,” the balding shopkeeper says when he catches Iwaizumi lingering over a colorful print of Oikawa coyly peeking out from behind a fan, the graceful lines of his fingers rendered in loving detail.

“Ittetsu is one of our most popular subjects. He has a new print--”

There are prints of him in every possible pose, in a rainbow of colors, but the shopkeeper reaches for a red-bound book tucked into a careful corner shelf, and Iwaizumi feels a cold sense of foreboding.

“--from our Special Collection, very tasteful. A true connoisseur like yourself can surely appreciate--”

The rest of the shopkeeper’s speech is drowned out by the sound of all the blood in Iwaizumi’s body rushing south so quickly it leaves him lightheaded. He stares, dazed, at the silky kimono slipping down off Oikawa’s shoulders, baring the pale expanse of his neck, the delicate wings of his collarbones. Iwaizumi can practically feel the slide of silk between his fingers. Oikawa’s poised above a washbasin, clutching the kimono to his waist in a vain effort to preserve some illusion of modesty. His red painted lips part in a soundless sigh, one that Iwaizumi can _feel_ against his skin, here and now on the dark street corner. It's nothing Iwaizumi hasn't seen before, but looking at the bared skin of Oikawa’s ankle Iwaizumi can feel his whole body flush, a hot fist of want settling low in his stomach.  

 _Kuroneko_ , reads the artist’s stamp in the corner. Iwaizumi thought he'd left his feelings of jealousy buried in the past, but imagining Kuroneko drawing this, seeing Oikawa like this, while Iwaizumi was trapped across town makes Iwaizumi want to light the whole of Yoshiwara ablaze. Oikawa belongs to the public and Seijoh-za and the liminal magic of the Floating World more than he’ll ever belong to Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi thought he'd made his peace with it, though looking at the print he's not so sure.

He pauses long enough that the shopkeeper moves in closer, a shark smelling blood in the water. Iwaizumi drops the book on a nearby counter, hurrying back out into the churning chaos of the street. His heart is fluttering inside his chest. He falls into step behind a group of well-dressed merchants, already merrily drunk and singing with it, allowing himself to be swept up in the tide of their revelry and into the safely anonymous crowds. 

Seijoh-za is another five minutes walk, the peeling green paint on the facade more familiar to Iwaizumi than his own home. It looms above all the neighboring shops, still impressive in all its shabby splendor. Even this early in the evening the crowd spills out the front doors and into the street. There’s an impressive number of women dressed in lavish kimono, all carrying fans with Oikawa’s face on them. Or, Ittetsu's face, rather. 

"The more things change," Iwaizumi laughs quietly. Seijoh does steady business, and other than a growing faction of women carrying Kageyama Tobio fans, not much is different than his first visit a handful of years ago. It's as comforting a thought as it is disorienting.

“Refresh your senses with a treat for the eyes!” Mizoguchi, Seijoh's assistant manager, is camped on the street corner waving programs at passers by. “For a limited time witness The Grand Empress Ittetsu, jewel of Seijoh, act alongside Ace Lead Ushijima--oh” he catches sight of Iwaizumi.

“Don't tell him I'm here,” Iwaizumi says.

“He's been asking about you,” Mizogucchi says, with a face like he’s swallowed something sour. He straightens the already perfect folds of his green and white Seijoh yukata. Iwaizumi smiles; Oikawa has a talent for wrapping even the toothiest guard dogs around his little finger.

“I brought the money with me,” is all Iwaizumi says.

“Irihita’s in his office,” Mizoguchi sighs. “Do it after the show, if you can possibly wait that long."

"I'm not just going to take him and run," Iwaizumi says. If that were an option he'd have done it years ago. "Have you met Ittetsu?"

"Side door, the one by the river.” Mizoguchi doesn't look like he believes him, but he must believe in Oikawa's bull-headedness because he doesn't argue further.

“Thank you,” Iwaizumi says, and turns to go. Across the street, he watches an Oiran carve a path through the heart of the Seijoh-za crowd, her golden hair pins winking in the dim light of the lanterns. She turns his direction, and there’s a split-second where the serenity of her expression fractures into something exhausted and heartbroken. Her face stays with him as he walks through the theatre, with its curtain of vertical lines, red, black and green. It's a face Iwaizumi's caught Oikawa making too many times to count.

Tonight. It has to be tonight, Iwaizumi thinks, and forces himself to keep his hands at his sides, so that he doesn’t touch the small silken pouch of coins hidden tight against his chest. He continues down past the stage walkway that extends into the audience, that Oikawa makes frequent use of, male and female fans alike swooning at his feet. The lights dim. He waits.

Ittetsu, Grand Empress of the stage, does not appear until the second act, but when they do, they make one hell of an entrance. It’s difficult to spot Oikawa under all that makeup. His face is powdered moon-white, and repainted along different lines. His wig is sleek and elegant, the bright purple patch designating him _onnagata_ shines proudly under the stage lights. It’s only when he moves into _mie_ , holding his pose while the crowd cheers and the artists sketch furiously, that Iwaizumi recognizes that familiar stubbornness and discipline, smoothed at the edges and made to look easy.

Ushijima suits the character of Yoshitusne with unnerving perfection. He fights well, and Iwaizumi grudgingly admits that his skill with a sword is impressive. The action scenes are charged with the intensity of a real match, never mind that the prop swords are blunted.

However, Ushijima’s affection for his mistress Shizuka is almost as unbelievable as the idea that Oikawa would ever be cast as a character named _shizuka_. Almost. Oikawa pours on the charm, but it’s a like watching him try and charm a stone wall. He doesn't let his frustration bleed over onto his face, but as Iwaizumi watches his smiles grows more and more rigid, and the rhythm of their dialogue turns cold.

Iwaizumi dreams himself into Ushijima’s place on the stage. He could suffer through the stifling clothes, and the face paint, if it meant making Oikawa laugh. Now the terrible, forced laugh that spills from him so easily now, his arm looped through Ushijima's. His real one. The stupid, snorting one Iwaizumi could tease from him back when they were snot-nosed kids and the only thing separating them was the crumbling southern wall of the Iwaizumi estate. Oikawa’s walking downstage toward Iwaizumi now, as if called by the siren song of Iwaizumi’s embarrassing daydreams. He’s so high above Iwaizumi like this, so beautiful and achingly far out of reach that Iwaizumi wonders if he shouldn’t be on his knees in prayer instead. The shamisen twangs along with each delicate footfall, pulling him closer and closer until Oikawa reaches the end of the walkway, and looks down.

He holds his pose, and then his eyes meet Iwaizumi’s. His hand trembles, gripping his fan with white knuckles, but he doesn’t break character, and Iwaizumi can’t look anywhere else. The high, yearning notes of a flute echo in Iwaizumi’s chest, in his teeth. He can feel the longing in his throat harden into a physical thing. Oikawa trembles again, like he’s holding himself back from reaching out to Iwaizumi. To be so close, after months of separation--

A trapdoor opens beneath Oikawa, and he disappears in a haze of smoke. There is a smattering of applause. Iwaizumi takes a deep breath, leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes. He tries to fix Oikawa’s face in his mind, but already it's slipping away, like so much fog over a lake.

After the play ends, and the lamps are re-lit, Iwaizumi carves out a lone path through the crowds, away from the player’s dressing rooms, and toward a small, unremarkable door that opens onto a narrow alley. The moon is hidden behind clouds now, and though Iwaizumi can’t see it, he can hear the sounds of water lapping gently nearby.

Oikawa, he can see.

He’s waiting outside, still in full makeup, wig starting to slip from its carefully pinned trappings. Somewhere along the way he exchanged his costume for a short-sleeved kosode of sky blue silk, embroidered with clouds of white peonies.

It’s so close to what he was wearing in the print that Iwaizumi is stuck speechless, pinned in place by the memory of Oikawa’a bare shoulder. He looks up when Iwaizumi steps out into the alleyway, and the lanterns burnish his face in soft shades of gold.

“Haijime?” he says, like Iwaizumi’s hit him in the softest, most vulnerable part of his body. Iwaizumi, knowing that the only common sense Oikawa’s ever had is touch, lets him tip Iwaizumi’s head back with the barest fingertip, exposing his face to the light.  

It’s dangerous. The consequences if they’re found, if someone recognizes him--he doesn’t want to consider it. The Iwaizumi Clan might not be rich, but they’re old and well established. The consequences would be long, and public, and humiliating for everyone. Iwaizumi knows this, in his marrow. And somehow he can still push all of it aside for a moment, sinking into the touch of Oikawa’s mouth on his, the sweet way he opens for Iwaizumi, turning all his questions into deep, lavish kisses.

“You’ve got it, then?” Oikawa says, and it’s a statement. His makeup is smudged, around his mouth. He wipes at Iwaizumi’s face with the inside of his sleeve, in a way that Iwaizumi can only describe as smug.

“I do. On my way to give it to Irihita now.” He traps Oikawa’s hand in his, cutting off the argument halfway out of Oikawa’s mouth. “Wait for me.”

“I should be there. It’s my contract.” Oikawa looks mutinous, and Iwaizumi kisses him again, until his mouth is soft with laughter.

“You remember the place from last time?” Last time they’d met at a rat-trap of an inn, but an inn off the main by-ways of Yoshiwara, and discreet. Discretion is paramount. “Find us a room.”

“Fine.” Oikawa wrinkles his nose. Iwaizumi kisses him again, just because he can.

“Wait for me,” he says again, and forces himself to drop Oikawa’s hand and walk back through the door, into the dark bowels of the theater.

As managers go, Irihita isn’t a bad sort. He guards his players well, because Irihita was a craftsman himself, and knows the value in caring for his tools. And as tools go, he knows Oikawa’s worth. This makes him a damn sight better than managers Oikawa’s had in the past, but it also means Irihita looks at Iwaizumi the way an oyster looks at an irritating grain of sand that's found its way into the shell of Seijoh-za when Iwaizumi steps into his office and slides the door shut behind him. 

The silence in the room weighs heavier on Iwaizumi with every passing second. Iwaizumi sets the money down on Irihita’s desk, and Irihita raises a single bushy eyebrow.

“My advance, from the manuscripts,” Iwaizumi manages at last. Five months of serials, run in every paper he could find an address to write to, under the name of Kyoutani Bakin. Five months of carefully hoarded payments, and yesterday the advance, from a press wanting the collection of the _Mad Dog Chronicles_. Poetry might be a respectable pastime, for a samurai. A novel was a bit more scandalous, but there was precedent. A lowly daily was unheard of, but Iwaizumi had done it, wrung from it every last coin he could manage for this moment, where Irihita take the pouch of coins, weighs it in his palm, and begins to calculate.

“No offense meant,” Irihita says, coins overflowing from his hands, sounding for all the world like he’s Iwaizumi’s fond uncle, and not someone who holds the entirety of Oikawa’s future in his palm. His eyes skate over Iwaizumi’s hat, his clothes, weighing and measuring him as surely as the gold in his hand. “You know how it is.”

Iwaizumi has to work to let that jab pass him by. His honor chafes at the implication that he'd risk Oikawa's freedom and reputation by tainting him with fraud, but he keeps his mouth shut. His honor and samurai pledge hang in tatters where Oikawa is concerned, leaving nothing but the base animal instinct to fight and claw and protect. It is exactly why he asked Oikawa to go ahead.

“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?” Irihita says again, in that infuriatingly mild voice of his. “Forgive me, I don’t recall your name.”

“Respectfully, I’ve declined to give one.”

“Now, now.” Irihita smiles a fox’s smile. “I can’t very well hand over my star actor to a nameless man. You’ll need to do better than that.”

There’s a long pause, while Iwaizumi shuffles through all his secrets to find one he’s willing to part with. “Kyoutani,” he says, at last.

“That sounds familiar,” Irihita says. “Like the writer?”

Iwaizumi remains silent, counting on his hat to hide his face.  

He weathers the baited traps that follow, lips pressed in a tight line. There are pricks at his pride, his honor, his assumed tastes. He tries to let the words roll off him like water off a stone. _Rocks and rivers_ , he thinks, with a twist of humor. It's fitting, for an Iwaizumi and Oikawa. And then Irihita is already showing signs of winding down, which is both better and worse than Iwaizumi feared. Better, because when it becomes clear Iwaizumi cannot be goaded into speaking, Irihita shuffles his papers irritably and sighs, “It appears all the documents are in order.” 

“The contract, please.” Iwaizumi bows, clinging desperately to politeness in the teeth of all opposition. The moment that follows is tight with tension, like the string of a koto, and Iwaizumi wonders if a trapdoor will open beneath him, too. He’s uncomfortably aware of his sword lying useless in the gatehouse. Oikawa’s fulfilled the terms of his contract, but contracts in Yoshiwara are as fluid and ever-changing as the water in the moat outside. Irihita could rip the contract in two. He could call in the guards and have Iwaizumi dragged out and arrested. He could make Iwaizumi and Oikawa's life miserable. 

"You must love him very much," Irihita says, softly. 

It hurts, sharp and quick. Love is a terribly small world against the vastness of what Iwaizumi feels and the things he would do, for Oikawa. He's glad, again, that Oikawa isn't here to bear witness. He keeps his head bowed, hands held out with palms to the ceiling. Supplication. His hat cuts off Irihita's view of his face, and the old man sighs with irritation. He wants spectacle, and Iwaizumi is refusing to give him the good theater he craves. 

Finally Irihita shakes his head. "Here, take it. The parameters of the contract have been met. He is yours." 

Iwaizumi takes the contract into his hands, feeling the heavy weight of the expensive paper, making sure to tuck it away carefully, so as not to smudge the fresh ink. "No," he says. "He is his." 

When he arrives at the inn, it is either very late, or very early. Iwaizumi wonders if nights in Yoshiwara always feel like this: a liminal, never-ending twilight, stretched as thin as the gods will allow before finally snapping into a new day. The main streets are still lined with drunks and dancers, light and smoke. The smaller alleyways are just as full of people seizing the shadows to escape the watchful eye of the _bakufu_ for a handful of hours.

Iwaizumi emerges from one such alley to find Oikawa lingering in the doorway of the inn they've come to use, in their infrequent nights together. Those nights are gone, Iwaizumi thinks, suddenly dizzy. He could wake up tomorrow morning and find Oikawa still in his bed, or he could wake up and find his vanished, like morning mist. The magic of the Floating World only lasts for a night after all, and it's been so long since either of them was free from it's spell. 

He hands Oikawa the contract without preamble. Oikawa is free to choose. In so many things, but in this as well. If he disappears at dawn without a word, as Iwaizumi is half afraid he might, Iwaizumi doesn't know how he'll bear it. 

Oikawa doesn't even bother to check the contract. He folds it away without looking at it, and something in Iwaizumi buckles under the weight of his trust. When he kisses Iwaizumi, curling his fingers into the fabric of Iwaizumi's haori, Iwaizumi wonders if either him or the haori will survive the night.

"Stop making that face," Oikawa murmurs against his temple. "I don't know what you're thinking, but I know it's stupid." He brushes his fingers across the back of Iwaizumi's neck, and Iwaizumi shudders. " _Ha-ji-me._ ”

Oikawa’s smile curls lovingly around each syllable of his name. They’d agreed not to use family names, and Oikawa shed his name like a snakeskin years ago. Still, it feels intimate, like a brush of lips against skin.

"Annoying," Iwaizumi huffs. " _To-o-ru_."

He kisses Oikawa again, slowly, until he's melted into Iwaizumi's embrace. _Rocks and rivers_ , he thinks, hiding his smile in the curve of Oikawa's neck.  

Soon, they'll go inside and he'll unpin Oikawa's hair, slide the body-warm silk off his shoulder, and re-learn the topography of Oikawa beneath him. Soon, he'll tell Oikawa about his uncle, who needs a male heir, and would be willing to adopt Oikawa into the family registry. Soon. For now, he pulls Oikawa close and kisses him, and listens to the sound of the waves lulling the Floating World to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> -Iwaizumi's manuscript is a pun on Kyoukutei Bakin's "Eight Dog Chronicles," I'm not even sorry  
> -Oikawa's stage name is his (及川 徹) & Iwaizumi's (岩泉 一) first names combined: ( 一徹) Ittetsu, or stubbornness/obstinance  
> -Rocks and rivers refers to Iwa (岩) and Oikawa's 'kawa' (川)  
> -Pine and Plum are both considered two of the Three Friends of Winter, aka plants that can survive the cold & snow, and symbolize perseverance. (One might even say...Ittetsu)


End file.
